You Before Me
by from-under-the-stingue-tree
Summary: "The Shadow Dragon Slayer quickly put all of his problems under a tight lock and key as he wrapped his friend up in a comforting embrace. Evils still attempted to shout inside his head, but, until he knew what was going on with Sting, his own pain didn't matter in the least." Angst Stingue One-Shot. TW.


**You Before Me**

 _Stingue_

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 _ **A/N: Possible trigger warnings: depression/suicidal ideation/self-harm consideration**_

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It was nearly four in the morning, and Rogue was still awake.

He hadn't had this much trouble falling asleep in months. He had actually been doing really well, as far as his mental and physical health went. The Shadow Dragon Slayer hadn't had any kind of depressive episode in probably three months, and he _wanted_ to keep living – for his partner, if nothing else.

That wasn't the case tonight.

It was incredible that Sting had yet to burst through Rogue's bedroom door, demanding what was wrong. With the White Dragon Slayer's enhanced sense of sound, he should have easily picked up the sniffling and low mumbling emitting from his dark-haired partner from across the hall.

The shadow mage wasn't sure whether or not he wanted Sting to wake up. If he did, then Rogue wouldn't need to be alone, but the blond would fuss and probably pry in order to find out what was wrong. Although his intentions would be good, it wouldn't be helpful either. But sitting alone in the corner of his dark bedroom, feeling helplessly alone and wishing to die wasn't exactly the best option either.

So instead of doing anything – he didn't know what he _could_ do in his current state, seeing as merely breathing was a difficult endeavour – Rogue stayed curled in a ball on the floor. As hot tears streamed down his cheeks, he dropped his forehead on the top of his sweatpant-clothed knees. The dragon slayer kept his left arm wrapped around his trembling legs and used the other to run through his jet black hair. He soon realised that even doing that much would be nearly impossible due to how much he was quivering, so he pulled himself in tighter into his little ball.

Regardless of how hard the logical part of his brain desperately tried to convince Rogue that the voices in his head were lying – that he _wasn't_ to blame for everything bad that has ever happened and that everyone _didn't_ secretly hate him – the cruel whispers seemed much more appealing, much more familiar to the teen. Although he had been well on his way to recovery, when the hurtful whispers made their return, Rogue found familiarity in the words and fell quickly back into the pit of despair and suicidal desires.

It wasn't really easy to explain – it was quite difficult to illustrate to someone who hadn't experienced depression before. It was sort of like, when Rogue was doing relatively well – didn't want to die, wanted to live and was generally pleased with life – a few evil thoughts would worm their way through the wall that the teen had built in order to prevent himself from falling yet again. Once the evil thoughts returned, Rogue felt that being miserable was where he was best suited to be.

After all of his previous depressive episodes, he felt the most comfortable and most familiar with the deadly combination of sadness and numbness. The feeling – or rather, lack of feeling – just felt so _normal_ to him since it was something that he remembered so vividly. Every time he relapsed, he might not recall everything that happens or _why_ he feels depressed, but he always remembers the emptiness and the unbearable loneliness. And it is because of that familiarity that Rogue welcomed the thoughts back into his head.

He was happy initially, but the harsh words reminded him that he was nothing, and that reminded him that he _deserved_ to be miserable and depressed – if he's gonna look all emo, he'd might as well act the part, too, a cynical part of his mind hissed – because of everything that he'd fucked up in the past. And then, once he had welcomed the feeling back into his mind, being _happy_ just felt so far away, so unattainable, so foreign. Although it had been just a few days of falling, happiness seemed like an emotion that was unrealistic and that Rogue hadn't experienced it in _such a long time._

 _You're totally worthless, you know that, right? The whole thing with the dragons after the Grand Magic Games? One hundred percent your fault. Yukino being kicked out for a few days? Absolutely your fault. You didn't try to stop Jiemma, so that falls on your shoulders. Lector disappearing for a few days? You. You couldn't save your best friend's Exceed – no, you were too concerned about Frosch. Hell, even natural disasters that kill people are your fault. You are the scum of Earthland. You deserve to die, you know that, right? What do you do to help humanity? Nothing. You just sit around, staring at your best friend who will never like you back._

 _Who would want to date scum like you, anyways? You're fucking worthless. You have fucked up everything. You have no reason to live, so just fucking die, won't you? Everyone else will be better off without you. If they needed you, they would be here by your side right now. But they can't hear you crying, or they're_ ignoring _you, so they don't fucking care about you. That's all the proof you need that you're not needed for life. No one would care if you died. Sting would move on. The world would keep moving, so wouldn't it just be easier to die? It would, wouldn't it? So, go on. Go fucking kill yourself, Rogue._

He clutched his head tightly as the thoughts started multiplying in his mind, all swirling together and playing over one another. Every flaw in Rogue's being was suddenly crystal clear, all yelled loudly over suicidal wishes. Broken up words and sentences formed, combining into a deadly poison for the boy's damaged mind.

Honestly, his brain had been through so much abuse through the past several years. Don't even _talk_ about what his heart had been through as well. When he first started feeling depressed, he must've been about twelve, and since then, his heart and mind had been through hell several times over. On more than a few occasions – okay, like every time he had a dangerously bad episode such as tonight – his heart ached from impossible loneliness and helplessness. Rogue had to fight his own demons alone, and more often than not, that damaged his heart a little bit more each time. It's not like there was much that Sting or anyone could do. Sting couldn't reach into Rogue's brain and remove the evil by force, so the ebony-haired teen was in it alone.

His thoughts became more relentless by the second, infinitely worse than they had been just an hour ago. Sixty minutes in the past, Rogue had simply been blankly staring at the wall, completely numb to any emotion. The teen was in unbearable mental pain in his current state, yet he still preferred feeling depressed and perilously suicidal to feeling nothing. In the days following the last time he had had a bad night, Rogue had been just going through the motions. He didn't feel anything, didn't even really speak much. The Shadow Dragon Slayer didn't even remember those days at all because he just didn't exist then because he didn't _feel_ anything.

Feeling pain was always better than feeling nothing.

That was why his darkest nights was when pressing a blade to Rogue's pale skin seemed immensely appealing. No matter how much he considered it, how much he wanted – needed – to feel something, the teen could never bring himself to use the blade. That was one of the few promises Sting had forced upon Rogue when he discovered his partner's battles with depression – Rogue will _not_ self-harm. He couldn't even feel his body – physical or emotional – on the nights when he had seriously considered caving in and breaking the oath to his friend. He needed to feel something to prove that he was alive, that he wasn't just going through life as a useless object, waiting to die.

He never did, though. That was the proof that he still had some kind of control over his actions. At least, Rogue figured that was the reason why he hadn't ended it all by now.

It felt like a goddamn eternity that the boy stayed in his spot in his bedroom, yet he didn't move. _Couldn't_ move.

A new wave of cruelty was just beginning – and with that wave came more and more reasons why Rogue was a failure of a human that didn't deserve life – Rogue's enhanced hearing picked up a vague muffled sound over the shouting of his own thoughts. Even he was surprised that he heard it. Usually, once he had fallen into his hole of depression, he was dead to the world and nothing else mattered.

A moment later, the sound repeated itself, which brought a portion of Rogue's brain out of his self-loathing, suicidal thoughts. He realised that the sound was from just outside of his door; it was someone knocking. Without Rogue's Dragon Slayer hearing, he wouldn't have heard the soft sniffles and uneven breathing. Although he couldn't smell very well due to crying for so long, the Shadow Dragon Slayer easily identified the person knocking as Sting.

His mind was clouded and fuzzy with a still unreal number of cruel whispers, but his anxieties were just loud enough to allow Rogue to think. His conscience processed a few things at the same time: middle of the night, uneven breathing, sniffles. Once he came to a reasonable assumption as to why Sting could be at Rogue's door this time of night, he was on his feet and treading to the door with a sense of urgency. He was incredibly dizzy from standing up so quickly, and his eyes were still flooded with tears, but he didn't care. He wiped the water droplets away on the back of his hand while trying to keep his balance as he padded across the dark room.

When Rogue swung open the door with a pounding heart, he nearly collapsed right then and there at the sight before him. "Sting…" he croaked, more tears forming.

The teenager looked defeated – completely and utterly defeated. As he was very well acclimated to being in the dark, he quickly realised that the usually bright blue eyes of his partner were dark and dull. Sting was hunched over, he had bags under his eyes, and his hair was going in every direction. Sting's eyes were puffy and still harboured so many tears.

"Rogue…" Sting whispered weakly, falling onto his partner. Sting buried his nose in the strap of Rogue's black tank top and gripped onto the boy with almost painful tightness. The dark-haired boy felt warm tears dripping onto his muscular shoulders, which made his heart ache for Sting even more.

The Shadow Dragon Slayer quickly put all of his problems under a tight lock and key as he wrapped his friend up in a comforting embrace. Evils still attempted to shout inside his head, but, until he knew what was going on with Sting, his own pain didn't matter in the least. Sting was what mattered most to him in that moment – and it would probably always be that way. Rogue admitted to himself that, pretty much whoever it was, he would gladly shoulder all of his or her problems before dealing with his own.

If Rogue could, he would take every awful thing that depression could throw at him if it meant that no one else had to hurt like he did. To Rogue, there would be no need to even consider whether or not it was worth it; it would _always_ be worth it.

The pair didn't move for a long time. Sting wept on Rogue's shoulder as the dark-haired boy whispered things that he hoped were helping Sting. "You'll be okay. You're okay, Sting. I'm here with you. I promise, you're okay. Just stay here with me."

Rogue didn't know what was going on inside of his partner's head, but it was surely intolerably awful for Sting to come knocking on his door at four in the morning. So instead of prying, for several minutes Rogue just held the man who meant more than the world to him. Just stood there in the doorway doing everything that he could to ease the pain.

Once Sting stopped sobbing so hard, Rogue pulled back the tiniest bit. "Sting," he asked softly, "what happened?" The blond furiously shook his head and gripped his partner tighter as he was bombarded by another round of tears. "Okay."

Rogue's own thoughts were running mad. Now that his depressive emotions were put under temporary lockdown, he was an anxious mess. The boy's mind ran impossibly fast – actually, it was running in a very similar manner as it was just a few minutes ago, but this time it was with worries regarding the man he loved.

 _What happened? Is it something I did? Did he hurt himself? Did he do something? Does he want to die? Oh, god, I hope not. I never want Sting to feel like that. Ever. Did he have a nightmare?_

His breath hitched as he realised what this was about. _Today is…_

That was the moment when Sting stepped back a few steps in order to look Rogue in the eyes without letting go of the teenager's arms. He sniffled a few times before mumbling, "I'm sorry, Rogue. I shouldn't have bothered you. I just had a nightmare."

Rogue almost smiled softly, but instead he said, "I know. It's been fifteen years, right?"

"Y-yeah," he stuttered, choking back even more tears.

"I know what's going through your head, so don't lie. I've had the very same thoughts in the past. You're not a bad person, Sting. You only did what Weisslogia wanted you to do. You didn't kill your father, and neither did I. You're… you're the perfect person." He paused. "Don't _ever_ apologise for asking me for help."

Sting hugged Rogue around the waist again. "I'm sorry. I woke you, didn't I?"

"No, I was awake."

Sting blinked a coupled times as he stepped back, wiping his eyes dry. He was still sniffling, still recovering, but he seemed genuinely concerned now. "Why… why were you awake?" he asked, brows furrowed.

Rogue bit his lip, wondering whether or not it would be wise to tell the truth to his friend. _Sting's already not doing too well. If he was in a good place, I might, but –_

"Don't lie."

 _Oh._

"I –" his voice cracked. "I was, uh, not, uh, doing well. I, uh, was having an, uh, um, ep-episode."

Sting's eyes widened as he seemed to realise Rogue's own puffy eyes and defeated appearance. His eyes filled with fear. "Rogue…"

The Shadow Dragon Slayer shook his head and, yet again, wrapped his partner into a hug, nestling his face in Sting's bare shoulder. "Don't. I don't care what's going on with me. You will always come first, so don't apologise for bothering me with your problems," Rogue mumbled into Sting's neck. "I don't care if it's just that you stubbed your toe or if someone said something mean or something trivial like that. Even if I'm about to end it all, if you're hurting, you will come first every time, Sting, so don't apologise. That's what it means when you love someone. They will always come first, because their wellbeing means infinitely more to you. You'll always be more important to me than I am."

Sting was silent for a long time before he started, "Di-did you say that you…?"

If he was in a one hundred percent logical place, he probably would've been nervous, but instead Rogue replied, "Yes."

Both boys lifted their heads and locked eyes. Each was still hurting, each had puffy eyes, each still had tears that were not let out. But in that moment, none of that mattered. Both boys' eyes darted back and forth at the other, silently asking whether or not it was the right time and if he would be okay.

And then their mouths were pressed together in a delicate, cautious kiss. It wasn't the kind of kiss that would instigate an intense make-out session, but it was the kind that carefully let out all of the feelings that both boys had been harbouring for so long.

They didn't say anything when the kiss broke; it wasn't necessary. Instead, they pulled each other tighter in the embrace. They were comfortable with the silence between them now that all of the secrets they'd been hiding were gone. So they just stood in the darkness of the doorframe to Rogue's room.

Both boys still hurt; that never really went away. Sting's nightmares about his father lessened as time proceeded onward from the fifteenth anniversary of Weisslogia's death, just as it did every year.

Rogue still dealt with his depression and anxiety. That wasn't something that would just go away overnight or would suddenly be cured because he was finally in a dating relationship with Sting. No, mental illnesses were never that simple. It took time for the boy to heal. His illnesses didn't just _poof_ away ever; they were always there. It just became easier to deal with as time progressed on.

Rogue wasn't alone in his fight anymore, though. True, Sting couldn't physically remove the depression from his mind, but the White Dragon Slayer could be there for his boyfriend whenever it got tough. Sometimes, when Rogue was lost in his own thoughts, his partner would just sit there with him and talk about his day, which helped a lot of the time.

In the end, they found a way to be happy. "Happy" is a relative term, but they found the closest thing they could to it. Rogue was stable. Sting stopped having nightmares each year on the death anniversary. And when they weren't okay, they found a way to get better. Together.

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 _ **A/N: I am a fucking liar. To those of you who read my second part of THE LIBRARY CHAIR, I had said I was working on a thing with the Twin Dorks in the Atlanta airport. And I am, but I got the idea for this, and I really wanted to finish this because it is so important to me. So I hope to have that story up eventually.**_

 _ **So this story hits really close to home with me. I know that it is such a popular theme with Stingue stories: Rogue is depressed and Sting is his light and**_ **poof** _ **depression is gone. News flash: That is NOT how depression works. Rogue's experience was modelled after my personal struggles with the illness. I'm sure you can all imagine how hard it is to accurately put down a depressive episode on paper in a way that everyone (including those who have not experienced depression/anxiety) can fully comprehend. Depression is different for everyone who has it; this was just how it works in my brain.**_

 _ **The other thing in this story that I sort of wanted to point out was that STING IS NOT PERFECT. I feel like in a lot of similar stories, Rogue is depressed, and Sting is perfectly fine and the only thing he needs to worry about is the guild and Rogue. That's not how it works – everyone in this world has something wrong with them, whether you like it or not. No one is a "perfect light". That's part of the reason why I had Sting have a nightmare (and it conveniently fit in with the timing of the story with the death anniversary).**_

 _ **My idea in the first place was that Rogue was about to end his life, but then Sting asks for help with something that is far less severe than the thoughts in Rogue's head. To me, I don't fucking care how bad it is for me, my friends (especially the ones who have helped me stay alive for so long) will always ALWAYS come before myself. And I feel like that's how it would be with Stingue.**_

 _ **I need to stop with this whole A/N reel, because it is now in excess of a full Word Doc page. That was really really long thing, but I wanted to put that stuff out there. Depression is different for everyone. It doesn't just go away if something good happens.**_ _ **If you need help, find help. If you are in a really bad place, it is not cowardly to ask for help.**_ _ **Don't deal with it like Rogue was trying to. Be Sting and ask for help.**_

 _ **Alright, my people! Hope you enjoyed this! Please leave a review; I'd love to hear what you think about this! –Stephanie (holy fuck that was like 500 words of A/N)**_


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